No Good Deed
by Helen C
Summary: Written for chazper's "Sandy is a... What?" challenge. In this, Sandy is a presidential candidate.
1. Chapter 1

Title : No Good Deed

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG-13

Summary : Written for chazper's "Sandy is a... What?" challenge. In this, when Ryan meets him, Sandy is a presidential candidate.

Spoilers : This is wildly AU, so no spoilers.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AN. Many thanks to joey51 for beta'ing this, and to chazper for organizing the challenge in the first place. It was great fun to write…

* * *

**No Good Deed**

Helen C.

_2003_

_No good deed ever goes unpunished._

Trey used to tell him that pretty often, and days like today, Ryan wished he listened to his brother more instead of following his instincts.

But Trey was full of shit 90% of the time, and Ryan had to make it on his own now, so he had come to Los Angeles, and he had ended up walking on the beach, because he didn't often get to see the ocean, and he had heard a call for help and spotted the kid who was drowning.

Like an idiot, he had gone to help him.

And now, here he was, shivering on a hospital bed, frozen to the bone, and if he wasn't mistaken, the guy standing at the door, holding a used briefcase and looking mightily pissed off for having been dragged out of bed this early in the morning, was a social worker.

Just grand.

And of course, the first words out of the man's mouth were going to be—

"Well, we've been looking everywhere for you."

Fucker.

Ten months on his own, only to get caught because the water was damn cold this time of the year and he hadn't been able to make a run for it before the paramedics showed up at the scene.

He just wasn't cut out to live on the streets; he didn't want to deal, didn't want to prostitute himself and couldn't get a job without papers. Which left picking pockets, stealing food here and there and digging through dumpsters when nothing else worked.

Life at home had been shitty, but Ryan had never felt as lonely as during the last months.

Maybe that was why he hadn't run; maybe he was just too tired of running, too tired of fighting.

Let Social Services do their work; if they sent him somewhere he didn't like, well, there would still be the option to run then.

For now, he was tired of fighting, tired of being alone, tired of everything.

He closed his eyes, feeling the gaze of the social worker weighing on him.

_Here's your chance to do your job_, he thought as he drifted off. _Make my life better, if you can. Me? I give up._

* * *

"I'm sorry, dad," Seth said, for the tenth time in the last hour.

His father sighed, but finally stopped pacing.

The doctor, a young intern who looked terrified in the presence of the Governor (and possibly future President of the United States), repeated, "Sir, my superior will be here to talk to you any minute now."

That was about the only thing they'd been able to get out of him, aside from an eager, "Oh, don't worry, he'll be fine," when asked how Seth was doing.

Sometimes, being so widely known—Seth didn't think the word famous applied to politicians, but it was really the next best thing—was a deep inconvenience.

And it was only going to get worse, Seth thought glumly.

His father—his _father_, the man who watched stupid shows about meerkats with him and sucked beyond words to video games—was running for President. Seth didn't want him to lose, but if he won, they would be moving to Washington.

To the White Fucking House.

And, incidentally, under a microscope for the next four to eight years.

Seth shifted into bed, trying to avoid thinking about his future possible misery by focusing on his current, very real misery.

He was sore all over, but mostly, he was embarrassed by all the fuss.

Sure, he'd been careless and he'd swam too far and he'd almost been killed by an undercurrent, but he was fine (if a little cold, and shaken up, and yes, definitely achy from struggling against the waves.)

His father patted his hand softly. "Seth?"

"Yeah?"

For a second, he was sure his father was going to ask him if he really was all right (like he had done a gazillion times already), but instead, his father asked, "Will you be okay on your own for a few minutes?"

Seth shrugged. "Sure."

"I'll be back in a second," his father assured. "I just want to see the person who rescued you, thank him for what he did."

Seth hadn't really thought about that until now. "Sure. And hey, tell him I'd like to see him too, right?"

His father smiled and nodded. "Sure thing."

Then, he was gone, leaving Seth to pray that this wouldn't turn into a media circus. He didn't see why the son of the Governor of California almost drowning would matter to anyone but their friends and family, but he had learned long ago—with his mother's death and the constant presence of reporters for weeks after the funeral—that journalists had strange ideas about what their readers needed to know.

* * *

Sandy peeked into the room, catching the eye of the man who was sitting near the bed, looking bored.

The man got to his feet and walked to the door without a look at the kid lying in the bed, instantly losing points in Sandy's mental evaluation. He had worked with social cases long enough to know what kind of damage workers who didn't care could do.

"Governor," the man said, shaking his hand with a firm but moist grip.

Sandy had shaken so many hands during his two campaigns for Governor and during his term that he had developed the ability to smile through the most unpleasant handshakes.

The talents required to become a politician were various and surprising.

"Mister..."

He trailed off and the man hurried to say, "Anderson. Mike Anderson."

Sandy released his hand and looked in on the kid again.

Anderson sighed. "A runaway. Sad story."

_Yeah, kids don't usually run away because they're happy_, Sandy thought, but he kept silent, which prompted the man to add, "Father in jail, mother missing, presumed dead—she was a junkie—and brother in jail." He shook his head. "What a family..."

"What happened to him?" Sandy asked, not taking his eyes from the kid.

"Go figure," the man replied. "He was placed into a group home, and vanished on the way back from school, a few days before Christmas."

_Ten months_, Sandy thought. _That kid just spent ten months on the streets. _

_And he looks younger than Seth._

"How old?" he asked.

"Fifteen."

Sandy nodded.

Not that much younger, then.

But several pounds underweight, and with a defeated slump to his shoulders that was visible even though he was lying on his side, facing away from them.

"May I see him?" he asked.

"Why?" Anderson asked, before backpedaling. "I mean, of course, Governor."

Sandy smiled politely instead of saying what he really thought about the man's manners, and entered the room, knocking softly on the door frame.

The kid half turned on the bed and squinted at him. "Yeah?" he asked. Then, his eyes widened slightly.

"Hi," Sandy said. "I'm Sandy Cohen."

The kid nodded. "Yeah. I know who you are." He snorted softly. "Hell, who doesn't?"

"A lot of people, if some polls are to be believed," Sandy replied. "What's your name?"

Funnily enough, that was about the only information Anderson hadn't volunteered.

"Ryan Atwood." The kid extended his hand and Sandy shook it, noticing with relief that the fingers didn't feel too cold. At least, they were taking good care of him here.

"Nice to meet you."

Ryan eyed him in silence, waiting for him to speak. If he was surprised to see Sandy here, he didn't show it. He managed to give the impression that he could wait for someone to start speaking for hours, if need be.

"I came to thank you," Sandy said. "The kid you got out of the water was my son."

Ryan looked at him blankly before saying, "Figures."

Unsure what to make of that, Sandy added, "Really, thank you. If there's anything I can do..."

Ryan shook his head. "It's fine. Thanks."

He didn't meet Sandy's eyes, looking down at the floor instead.

Sandy hesitated but what could he do? He could tell Social Services not to screw up this time, but would that help? He knew how difficult it was to keep track of kids in group homes, and that was certainly where Ryan was headed.

This was why he had resigned from his job as public defendant and gone into politics; he wanted, he _needed_ to help as many people as he could—wanted to help kids like Ryan to make a better life for themselves.

He knew how much work there was left to do.

None of which helped Ryan Atwood, fifteen-year-old runaway without a family and, probably, without a lot of hope.

Wishing he could do more, Sandy thanked Ryan again and stepped out to talk to Anderson.

* * *

With that encounter, the lives of three people changed.

If Seth hadn't been careless, if Ryan hadn't decided to help, if Sandy had been less of a decent man, less of a father, things would have been very different.

* * *

Ryan was placed in a group home in L.A.

Sandy and Seth lived in L.A. whenever Sandy's duties didn't call him to Sacramento—and he tried to make sure that he spent as much time in Los Angeles and near his son as he could.

Seth had insisted on remaining at his old school at least until the end of the campaign and knowing the kind of pressure being the Governor's son put on Seth, Sandy hadn't argued the point for long. Seth needed stability, especially now that Kirsten was gone—taken from them by a drunk driver on a rainy night, and while it had happened five years ago, the wound was still as fresh as if it had occurred yesterday.

Sandy wasn't sure he would ever recover from it—and the first press secretary on the campaign who had told him that his status as a widower would buy him sympathy points had been fired faster than he could say, "foot in the mouth."

He just hoped that her absence and his long hours didn't weigh too heavily on Seth. At least Rosa was still with them; she had been a good friend to Sandy, and good mother figure to Seth, since Kirsten's death.

Despite the craziness the campaign entailed, they had fallen into a routine, managed to create another family, even in Kirsten's absence.

He just wished his son was happier.

And then, one evening, Sandy came back home to find Ryan and Seth playing video games in the living room.

"I invited him over," Seth said just as Ryan got to his feet, eyes down, and muttered, "I'll go."

"Stay," Sandy told Ryan. "We're happy to have you."

Ryan didn't look convinced but a big part of Sandy's job was to convince people.

Ryan ended up calling the group home and saying he was eating with the Cohens.

Seth ordered pizzas.

Sandy sat with the boys and listened as they talked—or, rather, as Seth talked. About comics, about his life as the Governor's son, and, to Sandy's surprise, even about Kirsten's death. It was the first time Sandy heard Seth talk about it to a stranger—hell, he barely talked to him about it.

Ryan, meanwhile, didn't say much. A few yeses and nos, a lot of nods and shrugs and half-smiles. Sandy wondered whether the kid was just shy and introverted, or whether he had been taught to be silent. He didn't like thinking such thoughts about this kid—or any kid.

When they were done eating, Sandy offered to drive Ryan back. It took a while to convince him that there was no way Sandy would let him take a bus at this hour. "You'll be doing me a favor," he said. "I'd like to drive a little. I rarely get a chance these days."

Ryan considered the words for a moment before nodding. "Thanks."

It was hard to get a feel for the kid, Sandy discovered when they reached the group home. Every attempt at engaging a conversation had been met with a mono-syllabic reply, at best.

Once he stopped the car, Ryan made no move to get out. He just sat there, watching the house glumly.

Sandy could sympathize; the building had obviously seen better days.

"Do you like it here?" he asked out of the blue.

"It's fine," Ryan replied.

Then he seemed to steel himself, and put his hand on the door handle.

"Please, feel free to come see Seth again", Sandy said. "I think he likes you."

"Yeah," Ryan said. "It was fun. Thanks for the meal."

He was out of the car and at the door of the house before Sandy could add anything.

To his relief, Ryan did come back regularly after that. He never invited Seth over to his place, though, and Sandy couldn't help noticing that he wasn't gaining much weight, and that he sometimes wore long sleeves on hot days or moved too stiffly, too slowly.

He put all these observations in a corner of his mind, examining them when he had time, keeping a tally of everything he spotted, just in case it was needed one day.

He wasn't building a case, not exactly.

Merely making observations.

For future reference.

* * *

Seth didn't expect to see Ryan waiting for him when he got out of school for the day, but he knew better than to show he was surprised—because Ryan was sure to mistake that as a sign that he was bothering Seth when it couldn't be further from the truth.

"Hey, man," he said. "What are you doing—?"

His words stayed stuck in his throat when Ryan raised his head.

Seth stared at the black eye and the bruised lips and the scratch on his jaw.

"Oh," he said, wondering if anything else was bruised.

Maybe that was why he didn't have any friends.

He just sucked when it came to these situations.

"Yeah, look, I gotta jet," Ryan said. "But I wanted to, you know, say bye."

Seth wanted to say a lot of things; hell, he _always_ wanted to say a lot of things.

For once, though, he waited and thought it through.

This time, he had to choose his words carefully, because he thought that while Ryan didn't talk much, he heard a lot and committed every word that was said to him to memory.

Seth couldn't screw up.

_Dude, you can't run away._

_Look, why don't I call my dad?_

_Don't be stupid, what will you do?_

_You can't go out there on your own._

_You're only fifteen._

He opened his mouth.

Ryan was looking at his shoes like they were the most fascinating thing in the world, as if he was bracing himself, or waiting for something.

Did he really want to go back to living on the streets?

Seth doubted it very much.

What did he want to hear?

"Yeah," Seth said, eventually. "Or, you know, you could come home with me. We'll put ice on your eye. It looks bad, man. No offense."

Ryan snorted. "I know." He sighed, hands deep in his pockets. "I don't know..."

_Me neither._

_I'm totally flying blind here._

_Oh, fuck, I need Dad._

But it was a childish thought and Ryan needed him to come up with something right now.

"Come home," Seth said.

_Believe me._

_Trust me._

_We'll find something._

Please.

"It'll be fine," he added.

_I promise._

Miraculously, Ryan followed him home.

* * *

Ryan had no idea what he was doing here at the Cohens, when he should be hitchhiking his way out of L.A. as fast as he could.

It had been stupid to come.

Governor Cohen would only send him back to the group home. Best case scenario, he'd call Social Services and tell them what was going on, and then what?

The man was running for President and here Ryan was, in his bathroom, holding ice to his eye in a hopeless attempt at keeping it from swelling too badly.

Seth had been talking since they'd entered the house, keeping a steady stream of babble. To distract Ryan? To keep him from balking? To release his own tension? Because he didn't know what else to do?

Probably all of the above.

Seth was the only person Ryan knew outside of the group home folks (who were the problem), the teachers at school (who didn't care) and his social worker (who was nice but totally clueless).

Seth was the closest thing to a friend Ryan had made since Theresa.

He didn't want to be sent back to the group home, but he didn't want to be alone again either. He remembered how that felt.

He was petrified of having to do it again.

Yes, he should really grab his backpack and make a run for it and try to keep a low profile for the next three years.

And be scared and tired and hungry and lonely all the time.

If he was sent back, he wouldn't have any other choice but to run.

But if there was another possibility... Maybe the Governor would be able to help him get emancipated. He didn't have a criminal record. That could only work in his favor, right?

Hopefully, the Governor would be able to help.

* * *

When Sandy came home that night, he was met with a new (and not completely unforeseen) challenge.

Fortunately for Ryan, Sandy had always been excellent at facing challenges.

* * *

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

Title : No Good Deed

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG-13

Summary : Written for chazper's "Sandy is a... What?" challenge. In this, when Ryan meets him, Sandy is a presidential candidate.

Spoilers : This is wildly AU, so no spoilers.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AN. Many thanks to joey51 for beta'ing this, and to chazper for organizing the challenge in the first place. It was great fun to write…

* * *

_2005_

Over the last couple of years, Ryan had grown used to meeting Congressmen and Senators, to seeing busy staffers rushing down the hallways of the White House and, sometimes, the Residence, and to having a team of Secret Service agents trailing Sandy, Seth and himself, everywhere they went.

He had even grown used to having a family again—of course, their circumstances were a little unusual, but somehow, Sandy always found a way to spend time with him and Seth, to watch movies with them, to ask them about their day and how things were going at school.

Sometimes, it dawned on Ryan that three years ago, he was living on the streets, hopeless and lonely and wondering whether this would be his life forever.

These times, he had to pinch himself, if only metaphorically, to remind himself that he wasn't dreaming his current life, that all of this was real, that home was actually the White House.

It never failed to amuse Seth, but then, Seth had known Sandy as a father before he had seen him as a political figure. Ryan had met Governor Cohen, and it had taken a while to get to know the man behind the function.

Sandy had taken steps to ensure that being in the public eye wouldn't disturb Seth and Ryan's lives too much, but some hassle was inevitable. No matter how sternly the journalists had been told never to bother them, some teens' papers wanted to know what it was like to be the President's kids, there were invitations to grand opening and screening premieres and, of course, both Seth and Ryan had won a lot of overnight friends.

Living their lives without the relative privacy of anonymity meant that they had to be careful who they befriended; some people would have loved nothing more than to throw dirt on them, in hopes that it would also taint Sandy's image. In some people's eyes, a President who wasn't totally perfect had no business running the country, and not controlling the two teenagers under his care would pass for a sign of imperfection.

It was a bit like living under siege, no matter how much Sandy stressed that, as teenagers, he didn't expect them to be perfect all the time, that everyone learned by making mistakes, that it was only expected that they would screw up sometimes and he wouldn't stop loving them if they did.

Sandy was a good man, but that didn't mean that Ryan wasn't scared of disappointing him, of causing trouble for him.

Which was why his hands were shaking as he sat on a bench in the park, waiting for Trey to show up.

"His" Secret Service agent—Harry Templeton—was standing silently behind him, undoubtedly watching the perimeter to make sure that everything was safe.

Three of his colleagues were around—one of them reading a newspaper a few benches to the left, one of them jogging on the trail nearby, one of them watching from the car at the gate.

In fact, there may be even more agents hiding around—Sandy had been understandably nervous when Ryan had told him about Trey asking to see him.

Hell, Ryan himself felt apprehensive, and Trey was his brother; he knew him, felt relatively confident that the guy wouldn't hurt him—not intentionally, at any rate. Not unless jail had changed him.

* * *

When Trey finally arrived, half an hour late, Ryan was cracking his knuckles absentmindedly, trying to look as if he wasn't a bundle of nerves.

He wanted this to go well, wanted his brother back into his life, wanted him to share some of what Ryan experienced every day.

He wanted Trey to be okay, to still be his brother, the guy he used to know in California.

"Hey, bro," Trey said.

Ryan looked up at him. "Hey," he replied.

Well over three years since the last time they had seen one another.

Three words, and Trey grinned and sat down next to Ryan, ignoring Harry and the other agents watching the scene. "How are you doing?"

Like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Like things hadn't changed.

Like they had seen each other yesterday.

Ryan started to breathe a little easier. "Fine. You?"

Trey shrugged easily. "Same old." He looked around, finally acknowledging the agents. "They with you, huh?"

Ryan looked at the ground, feeling a little dizzy as his past life and current life finally met. "Yeah," he said. "But we can talk," he added. "They're not supposed to repeat anything I say or do." _Unless I'm in danger_, he didn't add. _Unless they think I'm in trouble_.

"That's... cool," Trey eventually replied. "Might take some getting used to."

"You're telling me," Ryan said. "_I'_m not used to it. And it has been two years."

They shared a grin.

Like nothing had changed.

"Can you go get a drink somewhere?" Trey asked.

"The Secret Services secured a place down the street," Ryan replied. _Just in case_. "You wanna?" Hoping his brother would say yes.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting in a booth with coffees in front of them, and Trey was looking around, suddenly fidgety.

"So," he eventually started as Ryan was trying to find something to say—something that didn't have anything to do with jail or Dawn or their father, preferably. "What is it like? Living in the White House?"

"Huh," Ryan said. Where to start? Seth could claim all he wanted that it was like living anywhere else (they had to go to school, come back and watch TV or play games, go to bed, and start it again the next day), Ryan found it deeply unsettling after life in Chino—and life on the streets.

He took a swallow of coffee, stalling.

"That bad?" Trey asked. "I'd have thought—"

"No," Ryan cut him off. "Not bad. Just different. It's weird always having people around, and having everyone watch you because you're... you know..."

"The President's kid, right." Trey's tone gave nothing away but for the first time since the beginning of this little reunion, Ryan felt the tension between them rise up a notch.

"Yes," he replied anyway. It would have been useless to deny it. Sandy had legally adopted him a few months after taking custody. Neither Frank (still in jail) nor Dawn (still missing) was in any position to protest.

Would Ryan have liked them to protest?

Maybe.

But then, it would have made everything so much more painful and complicated than this clean break, this new start.

He knew how much he owed Sandy.

He just hoped that, one day, he'd be able to pay him back.

Trey muttered something that might have been "fuck you," but it was too low for Ryan to be sure.

"You have any news of Frank or Dawn?" Ryan asked, deciding that even talking about their family couldn't be more awkward than this.

To his surprise, Trey nodded. "Yeah. Well, Frank's still in jail. Apparently, he was selling drugs from inside. He got caught. He'll be doing at least five more."

Ryan nodded. That much he knew. Sandy kept tabs on both of Ryan's parents—or, rather, on Frank, since no one could find Dawn. Ryan suspected some private detectives might be on the case, but he couldn't be sure.

He didn't want to know badly enough to ask.

Years later, he still wasn't over coming back and finding the house empty, with a note stuck to the counter telling him that he was on his own.

He had always forgiven Dawn in the past, but this, he just couldn't.

"Haven't heard from Dawn in ages, though," Trey added. "She never called me when I was inside. You?"

Ryan shook his head. "Sandy looked for her, before he adopted me."

"Not long and hard, apparently."

Ryan bristled at his tone. "Long enough that it was clear she didn't want to be found," he replied. Long enough that it was clear she had left for good.

He wished he had a way to know for sure whether or not she was still alive.

Or maybe it was better not to know. What would hurt more? Learn that she had been dead for years, without his knowing, without a chance to say goodbye, without even a proper funeral? Or to learn that she was alive and well, and she just didn't want to see him again?

Either would be painful enough that he preferred not knowing.

Trey raised his hands to placate him. "Sorry. Didn't mean anything by it."

_Yes, you did._

Trey rarely said anything without intent.

He was an Atwood, just like Ryan, and Atwoods didn't waste words saying things they didn't mean.

"Why are you here?" Ryan asked.

He studied his brother intently, but the guy didn't give anything away when he said, "I just wanted to see how my little brother was doing. Nothing wrong with that, right?"

"Yeah. No."

_I missed you_, he wanted to say. _I did._

But he couldn't say it; he knew all too well what Trey would reply.

"You okay?" he asked instead.

"No," Trey replied. "I mean, yeah, better now that I'm out of jail, but..." He looked around and snorted. "Fuck, I wish I'd had the kind of lucky break you had."

Ten months on the street, begging for change, stealing food left and right, breaking into a cold sweat every time a police car drove by.

But Ryan supposed that in Trey's eyes, it meant nothing if the end result was worth the pain; and sure, Ryan had lucked out.

Not many kids made it off the street, not alive and well at any rate.

He just wished he didn't have to live with a gaping wound the size of an empty house.

"I'm sorry," Ryan said.

_I'm sorry our parents were screw-ups. I'm sorry you got arrested. I'm sorry you didn't meet a Sandy or a Seth. I'm sorry I wasn't a better brother._

_I'm sorry I kind of don't want you here, because you have that look, and you're going to ask me something I can't give you and you'll be pissed._

_I'm sorry; you're family, and I love you, but you scare me. _

He felt like the worst asshole in the world for thinking so, but he owed too much to Sandy to fuck things up.

Not even for his brother.

"Not your fault," Trey replied, and Ryan could see that his brother meant it, despite everything.

He had gotten the rotten end of the deal, but at least some part of him was happy for Ryan, no doubt about that.

Ryan just didn't think it stopped there.

_You didn't fly all this way to ask me how I was doing, did you, Trey?_

_Of course not._

_You were released six months ago._

_You could have called then, or any time since then._

"So," Trey started.

Ryan took the empty cup of coffee and held it with cold fingers, waiting.

"Do you think there's any way you can do me a favor?"

"What kind?" he asked, his tone neutral.

"Ten grand."

"Ah."

A tense silence followed.

Unsurprisingly, Trey was the first to break it. "So?"

"I don't have that kind of money."

"Don't shit me," Trey said, a note of anger creeping in his tone. "You got adopted by the fucking President. Don't tell me you're not good for it." He snorted. "I think it's the first time an Atwood can actually call some favors from someone influential."

"You think it's that simple?" Ryan asked. "I have a savings account I can't access until college, and spending money. That's it."

"But your adoptive father—"

The way he spat it out had Ryan clenching his teeth. "What? You think the President can just make a phone call and get ten grand? Without a word of explanation?"

"He's the President!"

"Exactly. Fuck, what world are you living in, Trey?" His voice was rising and he felt a hand settling on his shoulder. Trey leaned back in his seat as Harry asked, "Are you all right, here?"

Ryan nodded. "Sure. Sorry."

The agent withdrew but hovered closer to Ryan than he had before.

"So, you can't do anything, right?" Trey asked bitterly. "Does it even matter what these guys will do to me if I don't pay them?"

"Yes," Ryan snapped. "I can ask, but I can already tell you what the answer's going to be. At best, Sandy will tell you to go to the police and—"

Trey burst out laughing. "Are you kidding me? Fuck, what world do _you_ live in, bro?" He stopped laughing as quickly as he had started. "Not mine, apparently."

_Probably not. _

_Fuck._

"I'll ask," he replied. "I'll be in touch." _But I don't think you'll like what I have to say._

Trey's fist hit the table, rattling it and stopping every discussion in the café. "Thanks so much," he said.

Ryan felt Harry grab his arm and start hauling him up.

He thought about protesting but it would only make more of a scene.

He docilely followed the man to the car, threw a look over his shoulder in time to see that another agent was talking to Trey, looming over him.

_Fuck._

He rested his forehead on the window of the car, closed his eyes as the car drove away.

_I'm sorry._

* * *

"I'm sorry, Ryan," Sandy said when Ryan finished explaining what had happened.

He was sure that Harry had already given a full report to Sandy, but he appreciated the fact that the man was willing to give him a chance to explain it himself—yet another thing Sandy tried to do to preserve a semblance of normal life.

"It's okay," he said. "Not your fault."

"I can ask around," Sandy offered. "Or, well, have my staff do it. Discreetly."

Ryan wanted to accept very much, but he had to ask, "What if it leaks? Wouldn't you get in trouble?"

"For trying to help one of my kids?" Sandy sat down. "I know the scrutiny gets a bit much sometimes but, Ryan, I like to think that most people in this country would understand _that_."

He put an arm on Ryan's shoulder. "I'll try. I just don't think there's much anyone can do to help Trey. He has to—"

"Help himself?" Ryan cut him off. "I'm not sure he will."

For what felt like the thousandth time since Harry had dragged him away from Trey, he wished he could just give his brother that money, make sure he'd live through this one.

"There's only so much anyone can do to help him, Ryan." Sandy's arm didn't leave his shoulder as he added, "When you came to see Seth instead of just running away, you helped yourself. And it wasn't an easy decision to make, was it?"

Ryan shook his head, conceding the point.

"Trusting near-strangers to do right by you... You know, when I think about it, I'm still amazed that you did that."

Ryan shot him a look, just in time to see Sandy turn to him. "And I'm glad you took that chance." He got to his feet, leaned down to plant a kiss on Ryan's forehead. "I love you. Don't forget, whatever happens, that we're here, and we're your family, too."

Ryan nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

Sandy was almost to the door when he asked, his back to Ryan, "You really wanted it to work out, didn't you? With your brother?"

_Does it matter?_ Ryan almost asked. "It's not that I'm not grateful," he said instead. "I am."

Sandy turned back to him then, his soft gaze making Ryan look down. "I know that, kid."

"I just..." _I miss my family too. There were good days, here and there, you know. It wasn't all screams and drugs and alcohol and whatever you think it was._

_There were days when Dawn was a good mother, when Trey was a good brother, when he took care of me._

"He taught me how to ride a bike," he said, his voice strangled. "Did I ever tell you that?"

"No," Sandy replied, coming back to the couch where Ryan was sitting, hunched over with his head down. "No, you didn't."

"And to knot my shoe laces, too. And to fight back when these bullies tried to steal my money."

He felt the cushions shift when Sandy sat back next to him.

"I..."

_I miss him._

_It's not that I don't love you and Seth, I do, but fuck, I miss that Trey. And the Dawn who actually took care of me when I was sick and even the father who played with me, when he wasn't drunk._

"I know," Sandy said at last. "I wish I could..." He trailed of, then started again, "I don't want to say take that away from you, but at least make it easier for you."

"Yeah." Ryan snorted. "Well, it's not like you didn't do anything to help me, there..."

"I wish there was more to do."

"There isn't." _I swear, Sandy._

Sandy pulled him closer to him and Ryan let him, leaning on the man and allowing him to offer what comfort he could. "Thanks," he said when he felt like he could speak again without breaking down.

"What are fathers for?"

* * *

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

Title : No Good Deed

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG-13

Summary : Written for chazper's "Sandy is a... What?" challenge. In this, when Ryan meets him, Sandy is a presidential candidate.

Spoilers : This is wildly AU, so no spoilers.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AN. Many thanks to joey51 for beta'ing this, and to chazper for organizing the challenge in the first place. It was great fun to write…

* * *

_2013_

"So, how's our future former President doing?" Seth asked when he entered the room, looking around curiously, as if to familiarize himself with the surroundings again.

Of course, after living in a dorm in College for years (and then, in his own apartment), Ryan found the Residence foreign as well.

Funny how many places he had considered home in a few short years, when he thought about it. Which he tried not to; despite the years that had passed, it was still difficult to forget where he came from and what he had gone through.

"Ryan?" Seth called.

He startled out of his thoughts with a sheepish smile. "Sorry." He gestured around. "Guess the big move is weird for me too."

"Yeah." Seth sat down on the chair facing Ryan and put his feet up on the coffee table. "I know what you mean. Strange to think we spent a few years here. It seems like a lifetime ago."

_It was,_ Ryan thought. College had changed them both—just as it was supposed to.

For one thing, living their lives on opposite sides of the country (Seth in New York, Ryan in California), it had become a lot easier for Ryan to stand up to Seth and fight for his opinions—something he had found damn difficult to do when he had first moved in with the Cohens as a teenager.

It felt like having a brother again—a real brother, not a best friend to play with, but someone he knew would always be here, even after a fight, even when no one else would.

Thankfully, his relationship with Seth had never been as strained as his relationship with Trey—Trey, who was back in jail for selling drugs to pay off the debt he had asked Ryan for the money to settle.

No matter how many times Ryan had been told that Trey was an adult and made his own choices, it didn't make it easier to swallow. He had gone to see Trey a few times, but things between them were difficult.

Trey resented him for lucking out.

There was very little Ryan could do to change that.

"You're spacing again," Seth said.

Ryan sighed, swallowing back an impulsive urge to apologize. "I went to see Trey before I caught a flight here."

He didn't need to say more.

Seth nodded and abruptly changed the subject, seeming to understand that Ryan didn't want to talk about the visit, or about Trey, or about anything relating to his other family. "Is Dad ready for retirement?" he asked.

Ryan shrugged. He had arrived in DC two days earlier, but that didn't mean he had a lot more information than Seth did. Sandy was keeping suspiciously busy; chances were, he didn't want to give himself time to think. "He says he wants to keep working. He just doesn't know what to do, I guess."

"But there isn't a lot left for him to do, right? I mean, unless someone declares war to us in the next twenty-four hours, he's pretty much done here."

"Yes."

But if he knew the man, Sandy was probably wondering if he had done enough, and how he could have made more of a difference.

"Maybe he should just start to write his memoirs," Seth suggested. "He has to, at some point." His face brightened. "I could make it a comic book series!"

The worst part of it was, Ryan was pretty sure that Seth was not only serious about it, but perfectly capable of pulling it off.

Sandy's voice, coming from the doorway, interrupted them before Ryan could start talking Seth out of it. "Very funny, son. Everyone's a comedian, these days." He made a face as he walked into the room to hug Seth. "When's the last time you showered?" he asked.

"My girlfriend's back to saving whales, or whatever," Seth replied. "Where she goes, so does my empire."

"But not, it turns out, showers," Ryan threw in, and was rewarded with a smile from Sandy and a pillow in the face, courtesy of Seth.

_Home, sweet home_, he thought.

* * *

"All joking aside," Ryan said, entering the Oval Office later that night, once he was sure everyone but Sandy had left. "How are you doing?"

He did a good job of sitting down on the couch without looking around too much (something he always found difficult, the rare few times he came into the room).

Sandy was looking around, though, studying everything. In exactly two days, someone else would be sitting behind that desk and it would be over.

In two days, strangers would occupy the Residence that had been their home for the past eight years.

If it felt weird to Ryan, but what must it be like for Sandy, who had invested so much of his time, his energy, his life, into this?

"Ah," Sandy said. "I think I'm gonna have a hard time topping this."

Ryan nodded. "Yeah. I guess so." He smiled. "But you'll still be called from time to time, right? I mean, former Presidents still do events and conventions and..." He trailed off.

It wouldn't be the same thing, and Sandy knew that.

Sandy passed a hand through his hair. "Former Presidents are just that: _former_ Presidents. They're not the ones making the decisions."

"You did a good job," Ryan said. Sometimes, most times, he had a hard time believing that Sandy, the man who had been more of a father to him than Frank ever had, was the same man he kept seeing in the newspapers, elaborating policies and fighting to give all Americans a better life. "No war. The economy is going well, from what I gather."

Sandy waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, well," he said, as if it had been easy. "Maybe..." he started, "I don't know, maybe I should have waited before running. Spent more time watching you guys grow up."

"We were mostly grown when you ran," Ryan pointed out. _I was mostly grown before you even met me. And you still made such an impact... Did I ever properly thank you for that?_

"Yes, I know, but..."

Ryan walked to him, put a hand on his shoulder—and startled a little to realize that it was probably the first time he had done that, maybe even the first time he initiated contact between them. "We were fine. We're fine." He chuckled. "And if Seth and Summer keep at it the way he claims they are—" He stopped long enough to allow Sandy to protest his wording before going on, "You're gonna be seeing your grandkids growing up pretty fast."

Sandy shook himself, and put a hand on Ryan's, patting it softly.

"You're right." He looked up at him. "And I believe that this is my cue to ask inappropriate questions about your private life."

Ryan groaned, but he had walked right into that one—mostly on purpose.

For one thing, it would distract Sandy. For another, announcing to the world that he had met someone wasn't his style—he left the grand gestures and the big speeches to Seth—but if asked a direct question, he didn't mind replying.

And he really wanted Sandy and Seth to meet Taylor, because he was pretty sure he was going to marry her, eventually.

"No kids on the agenda yet," he informed Sandy. "But next time you're in California, if you promise not to bring the mood down with stories of your former glory as the President..." Sandy swatted at him for that and he laughed. "There might be someone I'd like you to meet."

"He or she?" Sandy asked, dragging a surprised snort out of Ryan.

"She," he said. "She's..."

He trailed off and Sandy nodded, suddenly grave. "Serious, then."

"Yeah."

"I did have The Talk with you, right?"

"You're going to make fun of me all night, aren't you?"

"Ah, kid, isn't that what fathers are for?"

* * *

When all was said and done, when the parties were over, the cakes were eaten and the alcohol drunk, when the last speeches were delivered and the personal effects packed and shipped off to California, it was only them—Sandy, Seth and Ryan—sitting in the Residence for the last time.

"Unless one of us comes back?" Sandy said, looking pointedly at his sons.

Who both looked down, and up, and away.

"I see." Sandy shrugged. "Ah, well, I don't blame you."

"If it makes you feel any better," Ryan offered, "if Taylor has her way, I just might become the first First Gentleman."

Not that Taylor showed any interest in politics, but in the ten months he had known her, she had shown an almost frightening ability to do anything she put her mind to.

She was a force of nature—though not more so than her mother; she may complain that meeting his family was going to mean meeting a former President, but Sandy was a lot less intimidating that Veronica Townsend.

He almost shuddered to think of what would happen if Taylor decided to go into politics.

"I really need to meet this girl," Sandy said.

"As soon as we get to California," Ryan promised.

There was a companionable silence as the three of them sipped their beer.

"It has been a year of lasts," Sandy said, apropos of nothing. "Last state of the union, last bill to pass, last speech to write."

"Last beer in the Residence before we can jet," Seth added, raising his can.

"That too." Sandy looked around. "Damn, I'll miss this place."

So would Ryan, and he realized so with no small amount of surprise.

But it was time to go—time to leave the place where the three of them had learned how to be a family.

"Well, kids," Sandy said, finishing his beer. "Let's go, then."

Together, they walked out, ready to build another life—a new life—for themselves.

* * *

end


End file.
